


Combust My Body In Flames (So Maybe You'd Finally Want Me The Way You Wanted The Sun)

by sadgalari



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, My First AO3 Post, One Shot, Sad, Short, Short One Shot, angsty, bad prose tbh, i'm 4'11, ishh ??, like me, metaphorical af, prose, sad stuff, short stuff, yike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:24:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadgalari/pseuds/sadgalari
Summary: Is it hard to understand how people truly feel?
Why do we find it so difficult to see that someone is sad? That someone is suffering?





	

I remember the day I got accepted for a job I applied for.

A man in a gray suit asked me a series of questions that I tried to answer without stuttering. "Do you work well under stress?" I remember him asking me. "Yes," I replied. "Stress does not affect how efficiently I work at all. In fact, it keeps me determined."

"Lies," my head told me. But I knew better than to tell the truth. When the man, Edward, I remember him saying, told me I had gotten the job. He leaned forward and shook my hand. "It was a pleasure talking to you," he told me.

On my way home, I noticed that my palms were flowered with ashes and the tips of my fingers felt numb. Strange as it was, I did what anyone else would've, what everyone else always does— I dismissed it.

The first few days of work were just what I'd expected— dull and tiring. However, in the first week, I noticed that Edward had never even laid a finger on a single document from the dozens I've sent him. Someone else always took them for him. Whenever he did take my documents, he would let me redo another of the same ones. He always had an excuse and said the papers were somewhat ripped, and they were. But not in the normal way. It's in a way that paper is... burned?

I shrugged it off and thought life was being strange.

* * *

One tuesday, after about a month at work, the security guards in the office broke Edward's door down. No one told me what it was about. But they mentioned a few things:

  * A glass of water
  * Sleeping pills, and
  * A note



The entire note was never public, to respect the man who always wore a gray suit, but a few parts of it were. In shaky handwriting, the note said, " _Is it hard to understand how people truly feel? Why do we find it so difficult to see that someone is sad? That someone is suffering? I was burning and no one ever bothered to cast my flame away until all that was left of me were embers."_

Embers.

The word was stuck in my thoughts for what felt like an entire lifetime. I thought about it when I left work, and when I didn't sleep for 2 days, and when I felt my own skin burn. It was excruciatingly painful, and I yelled in pain in my room at night.

Embers.

The word flew back in my mind when I was eating supper with my mother one evening. I sit ablaze beside her, warm tears flow down my cheeks and all she tells me is, "I smell smoke."

**Author's Note:**

> Yike. So this is my first work here ever and credits to that one emo tumblr post that inspired me to write this.


End file.
